


The Harvard Man

by JU_Zumester



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Fluff and Crack, Gen, Libraries, Post-Charlton, Pre-Karnak, Pre-Keene, Pre-Roche, Rorschach has a crushhh, Second-Person Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 06:03:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4949467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JU_Zumester/pseuds/JU_Zumester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If only you'd been taller. If only you'd listened to the part of you that hungers for life on the streets. The pallid view of unnamed buildings and dark alleyways. </p><p>Who are you kidding? If you had known, you'd have gone anyway. You're nothing if not a good detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Harvard Man

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt taken from onetruepairingideas.tumblr.com (suggested by isoscelesbill): “You’re super short and I’m sorry but it’s really cute whenever you try to reach that book on the top shelf, here lemme help you - oh no, don’t be embarassed, your face is all red and you’re even more adorable now I am going to die” au.
> 
> I’m pretty sure isoscelesbill’s tumblr doesn’t exist anymore since I couldn’t find anything at that url. Otherwise, I would have let them know that I was using their prompt. If anyone knows this person, maybe let them know for me? Or if you are this person, throw me a message. I try to tell people when I do their prompts.
> 
> [This fanwork may or may not contain spoilers and is subject to editing and improvement. Friendly feedback is appreciated.]

* * *

 

 

The unimposing scent of lightly used paperbacks. The sound of papers rustling in the background as you take characteristically light steps up one aisle and down another. You begin in the nonfiction science section and spend twenty minutes wandering until you inevitably end up in front of a long line of espionage novels.

You used to read more. But between fighting crime, fist over fist, and working during the day, you’ve been a little… distracted. First, partnering with the second Nite Owl, and then with several other costumed heroes in a group known as the “Crimebusters”. They’re a little flashy for your tastes, and when joining, you wondered how many of their actions were for the sake of public image, and how many were for the sake of the people. But they haven’t fallen out of your good graces yet, and you have to admit, it’s easier to defeat organized crime when you’ve got the advantage of backup on your side.

Actually, if you’re being really honest with yourself, you might even entertain the thought that Nite Owl is the reason you’ve come this far. You’ve certainly saved each others’ asses several times over the two years you’ve been partners, and watching him from behind a screen of latex and ink, you’ve learned a lot from the way he fights. The manner in which his lean body glides between enemies, guides them to the ground in punishing arcs, thrusts his fist into the stomach of an oncoming assailant, or simply hides in the shadows, unmoving but oh-so-aware.  
  
  
You realize that your feet have carried you away from the espionage and back into the nonfiction. Your eyes hone in on a book on aeronautics. Images of birds flying side by side with planes into a brightly colored sunset decorate the cover, and you recognize it as something your partner might read. You’ve found similar works on his bookshelves--after being dragged back to the Owl’s Nest for some coffee and friendly talk (to be precise, Nite Owl does most of the friendly talking, and you supply most of the silence).

With a bit of amusement on your lips, you realize just how laughable it all really is. How laughable he is, with his mountains of owl paraphernalia, and his themed Kevlar and his obsession with aeronautics and ornithology. The man can’t be that deep, shouldn’t be that fascinating--

You reach up to take the book, if only to quell the curiosity rising in your gut, simultaneously hushing the parts of you that find such trivial pursuits a waste of valued time. You should be on the streets where you belong, hunched in an alley or sinking your knuckles into some wanton degenerate--

A hand reaches over yours and casts your face in shadow. “Need help with that?”

That voice… You glance up, and up, and meet eyes with a tall, solidly built man. Brown curls slant to one side of his head, and he peeks out at you from behind large-rimmed glasses with compassionate eyes. The kind that make you flinch, not because they’re threatening, but because they’re not what you’d expect. From anyone.

For a few haphazard seconds, you think you might have misheard him. Mistaken his voice for someone else’s. Then, he grins, and you notice the dimple to the left of his mouth. Plenty of people have dimples, you tell yourself. It’s nothing special. No coincidence that someone like this, in a place like this, with a voice like that, would look so much like…

“Is something wrong?” the man asks. He hands you the book you were staring at and it settles on your twitchy fingers.  
  
You clear your throat. Try to disguise the emblematic gruffness of your voice. Try to soften it to accommodate the library’s calm atmosphere. Reassure yourself that even if this is the man behind Nite Owl, he’d never be able to tell that it was you. The human mask behind Rorschach’s face. The eyes behind the ink blots. Nite Owl doesn’t know Walter Kovacs. Not yet. “No. Nothing. Thank you,” you say. Nod to him. Remind yourself that this is how social interactions go. Force a smile onto your face.

He reaches out his hand, and it takes you a few seconds to realize that he wants you to shake it. “The name’s Daniel. Yours?”

“W-Walter.” The word sounds foreign on your tongue. You hate saying it. Hate living in this skin. Your bones ache with the desire to leave this place and crawl back onto the streets, traveling from shadow to shadow on damp concrete. To live in a no-questions-asked kind of world. This is why you don’t go to the library.

“Nice to meet you, Walter.” He shakes your hand, and his smile falters, if ever so slightly. You fear that perhaps you’ve given something away in the firmness of your grip or the nuances of your stance. “I studied aeronautics at Harvard, you know. Lovely subject. I could tell you all about it if you’re interes--”

You nod again briefly. Step past him, book still in hand. “Good bye,” you murmur, not unpleasantly. He’s cut off by his own surprise. You hear him turn around, begin to speak, but whatever he was going to say, he doesn’t follow through, and by the time he’s considered following you, you’re already halfway across the library. You fumble in your pocket for that library card you signed up for years ago. Wonder if there’s an expiration date for things like that, and decide that it doesn’t matter.

“Just that one?” asks the woman behind the desk. “Alright, and your card please?” She swipes your card under a scanner and hands you your book. Hardcover. Shiny under a layer of protective plastic. _Aeronautics: A Human’s Journey to the Skies_.

* * *

 

The hinges of your meager apartment’s door squeak as they close. A faint click of the lock serves as a catalyst, putting a lid on your anxiety and working some of the tension out of your shoulders.

Your living room/bedroom is hedged in shadow. The sun has already begun its descent over the horizon and everything around you is just the right amount of cool and dark. You shed three layers at once and collapse onto a mattress that groans in complaint at the prospect of supporting you. Stray springs dig into your lower back and you shift uncomfortably. Hold the book to your chest.

A few minutes of indecision later, you are opening it and your eyes flitter across the first page in a cocktail of skepticism and prying interest.

An hour later, you’re halfway through.

An hour after that, you’re asleep, half wrapped in blankets with your face buried in a pillow. The book lies open on the ground.

* * *

 

He asks you inside for coffee after a long night on patrol. Says it’ll do some good for your bones. You’re inclined to agree, since you rarely decline, and breaking from the pattern now would only raise suspicions more than they’ve already been raised.

Briefly, you consider walking away and never returning. Vainly hoping that you never see Nite Owl again. That the two of you can manage to protect the same city and never once see an inch of the other. That you will never be in a position in which you need his help. Letting him in is not an option. What’s under the latex of your face is off limits. You refuse to cross the line between partnership and friendship.

“So, coffee it is, then?” he asks, stepping out of the Archie and leaving you to stand in the hatch door, thinking.

“Acceptable,” you grunt. Might as well reinforce your boundaries while you still have them.

Inside, as warm rills of the bitter drink run down your throat, he notices the fact that you can’t stay still. He regards your wandering hands and your searching eyes. “Something on your mind?”

“I was just wondering,” you say. Try to tell yourself to stop, but it doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t. "Wondering what came first. The obsession with owls, or the obsession in aeronautics. Whether they’re connected. That’s all.”

A smile plays across Nite Owl’s lips. You notice his dimple with increasing agitation. “I was interested in both from a young age, actually. It only became a passion after I decided to major in such studies at Harvard. Why? Does the subject interest you?”  
  


You’re glad he can’t see your face. You don’t want to think about the expression you must be making.  
  
  
"No."

**Author's Note:**

> Things I listened to while writing this/optional soundtrack:
> 
> League of Legends Kindred Login Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QVtvPXVysiE
> 
> Thunder & Rain White Noise: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nDq6TstdEi8


End file.
